


Those We Long For

by sillywriting



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, John's relationship with the OC is in the past, Love Confessions, M/M, PTSD, Romance, Sherlock is nosy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sillywriting/pseuds/sillywriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock finds some surprising webpages in John's browser history, he sets out to discover the truth of his flatmate's dating life. What follows is something neither of the men could have predicted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my lovely beta, [Sam](http://sporklocked.tumblr.com/)!

 

The day that it happened had been ordinary. After whining about the boredom and dullness of the world, Sherlock had flopped onto the sofa and pulled John’s laptop over to him – with some half hearted protests from John, who was sitting in his usual armchair.

Sherlock flipped the laptop open, waiting impatiently for the computer to boot up. John sighed and turned a page of the newspaper he was reading. Ordinary.

Sherlock entered the password once the laptop was on, and John’s lips quirked resignedly. John had changed the password just last night, but of course that didn’t matter to the detective. Sherlock pulled the browser up and opened John’s history with the intent of teasing him about the porn to alleviate the crushing boredom. Again, ordinary. Almost painfully so.

John had looked back down at the newspaper by this point, and didn’t notice when Sherlock’s gaze suddenly sharpened on the computer’s screen, the corners of his mouth pulling down slightly.

“John.”

John glanced up briefly, then back down, not bothering to lower his paper. “Hm?”

“You were in the war.”

“Yes,” John replied slowly, looking back up for a second. It was unlike Sherlock to state the obvious.

Sherlock’s eyes flitted over the computer screen for a moment, taking in the browser history. “In the battle in which you were shot, someone was killed. Someone important to you.” He spoke quickly, voice low.

John set his paper down slowly, looking suddenly tired. “It was a war, Sherlock. A lot of people died who were important to me. I try not to dwell on it.”

Sherlock shook his head impatiently. “No, this one was different. On your computer you had porn open – gay porn. Unusual, for you. But soon after you searched for British military deaths. You went to a certain man’s page, and didn’t leave that page for a very long time. You didn’t go back to the porn – couldn’t. Because it reminded you of someone. You were... _romantically involved_.” He looked up at John, disbelief colouring his expression. “With a man.”

John’s jaw flexed, and he folded the newspaper with hard, jerky motions. “Most people fooled around in the army, Sherlock,” he replied sharply, setting the paper on the table next to him.

Sherlock shook his head again, looking back at the computer. “You did more than fool around. You cared about him deeply. He’s the reason you don’t date men anymore. And you...” Sherlock hesitated for a moment, his frown deepening. “You blame yourself for his death. Why?” ** **  
****

He looked back at John, who was now staring back at him, his face taut. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock persisted, looking annoyed. “Why would you blame yourself for his death? Soldiers die all the time, it’s what you signed up for. And why would that make you stop dating men and claim to be straight? It’s ridiculous!”

John’s expression was hard. “Shut up, Sherlock,” he said, voice low and dangerous. Sherlock blinked, his eyes narrowing as John continued. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You were never out there, with the heat and the constant stream of the dead. And the injured, all screaming for their god to just let them die as well. You’ve never lied awake at night thinking about how one of your mates had looked as an RPG exploded in his face.” John ran a hand down his mouth, eyes closing briefly as Sherlock watched silently. “I needed someone – something– to take me away from it all. Stephen did too. That’s all it was at first.” His voice was softer now; drained.

“I never meant for it to become more, not really. But it’s hard to keep distance between each other when you know any day could be your last – or his last. I don’t know when it happened, but... god. Yeah. I loved him.” John drew in a breath, his left hand clenching and unclenching slowly as Sherlock continued to watch in silence.

“And then we were in Sangin, and I got shot in the shoulder. We had been out on the field, looking for landmines – they were mostly IEDs – and a group of the Taliban took advantage. I was down, and I can remember Stephen had been guarding our backs in the grasses just off the field. He saw me fall, and started to run out towards me. I tried to tell him to stop, but I couldn’t think, there was too much pain, and he just kept coming and– oh god, he was an _idiot_.”

John took a deep, shaking breath.

“We hadn’t gotten all of the IEDs. All I can remember after that is seeing his face - he looked so shocked and desperate – and then there was a flash and he exploded and there was blood everywhere and the Taliban was still shooting and someone was shouting for a medic and I couldn’t fucking _think_. There was just pain and confusion and _please God, let me live_. The next thing I remember is waking up in a field hospital. When I asked they told me Stephen had died, that I was wounded in action, and that I would be transported back to England when they were able to move me. The only reason I was still alive was because Murray had pulled me away from the field.” He swallowed. “If I hadn’t gotten shot, or if I’d found that bloody IED earlier, Stephen would still be alive as well.”

“That’s idiotic,” Sherlock snapped. “It was hardly your fault you got shot, and–”

“Don’t,” John interrupted, eyes dangerous. Sherlock shut his mouth, although his expression was still dark.

Sherlock was silent for a very long time, his gaze unwavering on John who was taking deliberate breaths, forcing his body to calm down. When the detective spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically quiet. “That doesn’t explain why you no longer date men.”

John let out a huff of humorless laughter. “I can’t,” he replied hollowly. “Not without thinking about him.”

“Have you tried?”

John glared at his flatmate. “Of course I have. It’s not that I’m not attracted to men anymore, or that I wouldn’t like to date them. It’s that every time I try I end up seeming like a broken mess because of Stephen. I kiss a bloke, and suddenly have a flashback or panic attack. My psychologist said it’s a form of PTSD.”

Sherlock regarded John silently again for a moment. “Take off your shirt,” he instructed quietly.

John stared at him. “Sorry?”

“You heard me. I want to see the scar.”

John stood slowly, eyes narrowing. “Well you can fucking _stuff_ what you want, Sherlock Holmes. If you think that I’m just going to unload my emotional history and then let you parade around me deducing things and turning me into some kind of emotional experiment, then you’re more of a bloody fucking machine than I thought.” He walked over to the door, grabbing his coat.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock hadn’t moved from his position on the couch, his hands still poised above the keys on the laptop.

“Out,” John snapped, opening the door and thudding down the stairs, his left hand clenched in a fist.

Back in the sitting room, Sherlock waited until he heard the front door slam closed, then closed the laptop’s lid with a click, set it aside, and stood, going to the window. He watched stoically as John hailed a cab and drove off, then turned back around and spread out on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

He needed to think. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Sherlock finds some surprising webpages in John's browser history, he sets out to discover the truth of his flatmate's dating life. What follows is something neither of the men could have predicted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my lovely beta, [Sam](http://sporklocked.tumblr.com/)!

Three hours later, John came back to the flat. He shrugged his coat off and hung it up, studiously ignoring Sherlock, who was still laying on the sofa, hands steepled. John walked over to his chair and sat down, looking at Sherlock now.

There was a silence.

“I’m sorry.” It was John who spoke first. “I shouldn’t have called you a machine.”

Sherlock frowned slightly, glancing over at the man. “I was under the impression that I would be the one required to apologise. I believe many people would have called what I was doing ‘prying’.”

John snorted. “Yeah, well. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

Sherlock looked uncertain, and John sighed. “It’s emotional for me, and you were asking a lot of questions. But that doesn’t give me the right to lash out at you.” He reached down to the seam of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head and setting it on the arm of his chair. “There. That’s what you wanted, right?” ** **  
****

Sherlock blinked, then sat upright, eyes focused on the star-like scar over John’s left shoulder. He stood and walked over to John, who sat with miliary attention, obviously uncomfortable with the scrutiny. Sherlock knelt next to the chair, then hesitated.

“May I?” he asked carefully, one hand extended. John frowned, tensing, but then nodded. Sherlock reached out with unusual gentleness, lightly running his fingers along the scar tissue. John shivered slightly at the light touch, and Sherlock retracted his hand.

“There are men out there who would love you for who you are – painful history included,” Sherlock remarked carefully, his expression neutral.

John looked at him sharply, face guarded. “Not many. And not many people know what they’re getting into.”

“I would.”

For a moment John simply stared at Sherlock, his eyes disbelieving and hurt. It apparently wasn’t the reaction Sherlock had expected, and he rocked back on his heels slightly, watching John with a wary expression. John grabbed his shirt, putting it back on quickly as he stood and pushed past Sherlock, who closed his eyes with a grimace.

“I trusted you.” John spun around suddenly, spitting the words out. Sherlock opened his eyes to see the betrayed look on John’s face. “I fucking _trusted_ you not to turn this into some sick kind of experiment!” Sherlock’s eyes went wide.

“John–”

“No. I don’t want to hear it, Sherlock. You do _not_ experiment on people by telling them you love them when they’re showing you the weakest part of themselves.” John swallowed, running a hand over his eyes. “God.”

Sherlock stood slowly, as if afraid of scaring John off again. “John, listen. Please.”

John’s mouth was a thin, tight line, white around the edges. But he nodded shortly.

“It wasn’t an experiment.”

John snorted in disbelief.

“John, I swear it.” Sherlock looked apprehensive, but determined. “I know that sentiment is a chemical disadvantage. I know it, but that doesn’t mean I’m immune to it. I’m attracted to you. I–” His mouth twisted, betraying his discomfort with the situation. “I care about you.”

“You care about me.” The words were repeated with disbelief.

“Yes.” Sherlock paused. “I have no reason to lie about this.”

John let out a slow breath, watching Sherlock warily. Was it true? Could it be? Sherlock, who so readily despised emotional attachments? But John supposed that the unlikeliness of whole situation was what made it believable in the end. Sherlock would never pick such a complicated emotion to imitate long-term, no matter what the goal. He sighed. It was a fucked up world he lived in, where disbelief made something believable. But if he was honest, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“It wouldn’t be easy,” John said very quietly, after what seemed like ages. God, what was he _doing_? What made him think that Sherlock would be able to break through the boundaries that his body had created? What gave him the right to hope for this?

Sherlock visibly relaxed. “Easy is dull.”

The two men stared at each other, John standing in military position, and Sherlock subconsciously imitating him. It was John who moved first, striding forward and bringing his hand up to gently trace Sherlock’s cheek. The detective stopped breathing, watching John uncertainly. John’s eyes flickered to Sherlock’s lips, and he leaned up even as the detective leaned down.

It wasn’t a perfect kiss, or even a very good one. Actually, it was all quite sudden and rushed. But what it signified... John would trade a thousand mind-blowing kisses for this _one_ , if it meant that all it signified was true.

But then a car backfired outside, and John tensed, suddenly unpleasantly aware of Sherlock’s hand on his arm, and the feel of their lips together. But now it felt constraining, instead of comforting. _No, stop–_ It was hot. Too hot. The sound of traffic suddenly became the explosions of IEDs in the distance and John pushed Sherlock away violently, his eyes wide and panicked. _Don’t– Stephen stop–_ Sherlock backed up, hands in the air in a gesture of peace and surrender, but John didn’t see him. Couldn’t see him. He stumbled backward, then went into a crouched position, his breathing erratic and his hands shaking. Sherlock moved forward very slowly, crouching beside John without touching him.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, but commanding. “I need you to breathe. You’re in 221B Baker Street, in London. I’m right next to you, and you’re perfectly safe. Nothing will hurt you, John.”

John made a small noise of obvious fear and pain, closing his eyes tightly. He could hear a voice, but it sounded dim, and very far away. He couldn’t make out the words, and he was too afraid of what they would tell him to really try. _Where was Stephen?_ The sand was filling up his nose now, and his shoulder burned with a white hot pain. It felt like he was dying. Maybe he was.

“John. Please.” Sherlock’s voice broke, and he took a deep breath, obviously trying to calm himself down as well as John. If John had had the presence of mind, he would have been stunned by Sherlock’s blatant – if not intentional – display of emotion. But his own tortured brain didn’t give him the chance. John’s knees gave out, tired of crouching, and he sat on the floor with a thump, biting his lip to keep from crying out. His right hand went to his shoulder, trying to quench the invisible flow of blood. He could smell the blood in the air now, and someone was crying. It took a minute for John to realise that the broken sobs were coming from himself.

“Listen to my breathing, John. Can you do that? Watson!” The last word was a sharp command, and John started, then stilled slightly and nodded, Sherlock’s voice coming to him as if through deep water. Sherlock. Not Stephen. He opened his eyes and tried to focus on the man’s face, needing some kind of anchor to the real world.

“Good. Breathe with me.” Sherlock instructed, quietly again now that he had John’s attention. Sherlock took long, deep breaths and John concentrated on matching them, his hands slowly becoming still again. He lost track of time, the only measure that of their combined breaths. In... and out. Over and over, until John felt a measure of calm returning to his posture.

When Sherlock spoke again his voice was rough. “Good?”

John nodded, but closed his eyes, hiding his face with his hands. God. John’s humiliation added to his feeling of weakness, and now that he was thinking clearly again he remembered why he didn’t want Sherlock to see this. As if sensing John’s need to be alone for a moment, Sherlock stood, going into the kitchen. He came back with two warm mugs of tea, hesitated, then sat on the floor next to John and held a mug out to him.

“Here.”

John looked up, eyes only slightly red now, and took the mug with a small nod of thanks. The two men silently sipped their tea for a while, the silence heavy. Sherlock’s eyes kept flitting to John,  as if to make sure he was still okay, while John was studiously staring at his mug of tea rather than anything else.

It was John who spoke first again. It always seemed to be John.

“I’m sorry.” John spoke to his tea.

Sherlock frowned. “It’s not your fault. I should have known.” He scowled. “I was an idiot.”

John shook his head, still not looking up. “No. Sherlock. I told you this wouldn’t work.”

“Mistakes were made that won’t be made again.” Sherlock snapped. “I’m not giving up that easily.”

Now John did look up, disbelief colouring his expression. “But you saw–”

“I saw a normal PTSD response from a soldier who should hardly be ashamed of trauma he received from an event that could have killed him,” Sherlock interrupted impatiently. “I saw nothing shameful, and nothing that would make me want to stop caring about said soldier.”

John swallowed. “Sherlock, this isn’t one of your easy-fix problems. It’s not like my limp.”

“I am aware.” Sherlock took a sip of his tea.

“And I might not ever be completely okay.”

Sherlock paused, then set his tea down on the floor next to him and waited until John had met his eyes. “I’m not expecting you to ever become normal, if that’s what you mean. You were a soldier. It would be foolish to expect you to act as a civilian, and frankly that would be a disappointment. Normal is boring. But if you will trust me, John, I can help you with your PTSD. I’m not saying everything will be perfect, I’m just saying it will be better. And you want this. I can tell. You want me. And I want this as well. So.” He picked up his tea and took another sip, expecting the matter to be closed. And maybe... maybe it was, thought John. He did want this. God, he did. And Sherlock was just stubborn enough that he would probably stick with it, and genius enough that maybe – _maybe_ he truly would be able to help John.

But what if he left? What if John’s weakness became too much for Sherlock, and he gave it all up – gave _John_ up – as a lost cause? Was John willing to bet their friendship (or whatever it was now) for that? He licked his lips, staring absently into the fireplace until he realised Sherlock was watching him carefully. He looked over at the man.

“What?” John asked, almost defensively.

“You don’t believe me.” Sherlock used his thumb to wipe up a drip of tea on his mug and then licked the finger clean, his expression carefully neutral now. “I’m not going to leave you, John.”

John didn’t bother asking how Sherlock knew. He always knew. “You can’t promise that.”

“Do you trust me?” Sherlock looked up at him again, eyes piercing.

John swallowed, his hesitation miniscule. “Yes.”

“If you trust me, you have to also believe me.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows, daring John to argue.

John closed his eyes for a second, then nodded, his jaw set. “Just... start slow, okay?”

“Of course.” Sherlock sniffed. He stood with his empty tea mug and started toward the kitchen, lightly touching John’s shoulder as he passed him. John took a small, quick breath through his nose, but otherwise had no reaction. He stood as well, following Sherlock into the kitchen and setting his mug in the sink to be washed later.

“So what does this make us now?” John leaned against the counter, watching Sherlock who had gone to his microscope at the table.

“Make us?” Sherlock didn’t look up.

“What do I call you? Partner, boyfriend, flatmate-trying-to-cure-my-PTSD-by-kissing-me?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, glancing at John. “The latter has a nice ring to it,” he replied, deadpan.

John snorted. “Right. Well I don’t like boyfriend, it sounds too juvenile. So partners it is then, unless you have an objection?”

Sherlock made a noncommittal grunt, which John chose to interpret positively. The establishment of some kind of name for what was going on between him and Sherlock made John feel just a little bit more in control, which was something he desperately needed right now. “Good. That’s settled then.”

And with that he went into the living room, opened his laptop, and started to write up the latest case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I hate to say this, real life has caught up with me. I'm going to be closing this fic for now, although I may come back to it in the future. Thank you to everyone who read, commented, and gave kudos to this work – your support means a lot!


End file.
